


Every Saint has His Past

by RivetingFabrications



Series: Jaytim Week 2016 [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Red Hood/Arsenal (Comics)
Genre: Father Todd, M/M, dickbabs is the side pairing, kind of slow burn, mashup of different characterizations, non-graphic description of underage relationship, priest!jason, very brief - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-02
Updated: 2016-09-24
Packaged: 2018-07-28 20:57:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7656463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RivetingFabrications/pseuds/RivetingFabrications
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The photographer for the newest church brochure is there for more than one reason.</p><p>Jaytim week prompts: confession, photography, and redemption</p><p>"So the ends justify the means,” murmurs Tim picking conclusions from Jason’s words with deadly precision. “You’re a sterner man than I thought, Father Todd. And yet.” Tim’s shutter clicks again. “You’re a person who does things in spades, Father. It isn’t a stretch to say that you’re someone motivated by passion. So. Why a religion you doubt?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Confession

**Author's Note:**

> Please enjoy! Many thanks to [theprofessionalrookie](http://theprofessionalrookie.tumblr.com//) for proofreading this and giving me really good feedback :D

 

“You’ve been grumpy all day,” notes Roy, his glass untouched as Jason pours himself a second. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Roy’s eyebrows shoot up at the surly response, staring incredulously.

“ _Dude_.”

“Look, it’s nothing,” gripes Jason, drinking deeply and setting the glass back on the table with a definite clink. “It’s just – it’s been a long day, okay?”

Roy nods sympathetically. “Yeah, I guess I’d be worn out if my job required me not to wank it like, _ever_.” He winks.

Jason snorts at that. “That is _not_ the problem.”

“And this glass in front of me isn’t making me damn thirsty.”

Jason rocks on the back legs of his chair. “Roy, you don’t have to –”

“I have to.” Roy gazes resolutely into the bottom of his glass. “Being able to resist taking a sip – isn’t that what this is all about? Proving that – that I’m better than this.”

Jason exhales, but doesn’t say anything else on the matter. His fingers stray to the beaten crucifix dangling over his heart. Roy’s eyes track the motion.

“Y’know, if being a priest doesn’t work out, I could probably help you find a different –”

“No.” Jason’s eyes slip shut. “This is what I want to do.”

It’s Roy’s turn to snort. “We’re just a pair of stubborn old bastards, aren’t we?”

Jason chuckles. “Pretty much. How’s Kori?”

“The same as usual. To be honest, we both don’t really get how you ended up at your current occupation.” Roy grins at him sheepishly. “I mean, I really can’t say you’re uh, much of a believer.”

“I’m just smart enough to know how to separate what I preach at my job and what I do in private.” Jason rolls his eyes. “You don’t see me wearing a cassock to bars and stuff.”

“Fair enough. Well, you are better at preaching to the unwashed masses than I thought you’d be.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“You’re welcome.” Roy leans forward intently. “So you’ve been grumpy all the damn day, is it from a sore throat? The other priests getting on your case for not being nearly as holy as the general populace seems to think you are? Too many people begging for you to make water holy? I guess you can say that you have a ‘divine touch’ now –”

“ _Roy_.” Jason’s voice is annoyed but a tinge of amusement lingers. “It’s not any of those. Also I think your idea of religion is seriously flawed but I don’t know where to start correcting you.”

“So what, then?”

“Nah, it’s just – we’re trying to get more money for repairs, so we’ve got this deal for a freelance photographer to come in, take some pictures to advertise and shit. It’s been tedious. And annoying.”

“Ooh, wait.” Roy’s head shoots up. “I think I know who you’re talking about. That cute kid who was at the soup kitchens. Retro old camera.” Roy’s eyes go wide. “Oooh, shit. You’re into him.”

“I am _not_.”

“You areeee. Dude, is he even legal? He’s so _tiny_.”

“Roy.”

“Ok, well maybe he’s tiny for his age, no wonder you’ve been so grumpy. You think I don’t know your type, Jaybird?”

“And pray tell, what _is_ my type?” Jason rolls his eyes.

“Oh, y’know, kinda sexy in a cute but gorgeous way, pretty eyelashes, mm, I think you go more for redheads if your track record says anything, you’re totally bi, though, um, hey doesn’t that mean you’d go for me?”

“Not in a million years.” Jason knocks back the rest of his glass.

“Ouch. And everything we’ve been through.”

“Regardless.” Jason shrugs offhandedly. “I’m not into him.” He doesn’t bother to mention the stirring unease in his gut.

~*~*~*~

The first time they met, two afternoons ago, Jason had been praying in a secluded area of the grounds, old briars curled about Saint Francis’s stone visage. The cloister was largely abandoned, Saint Francis a little chipped and the worse for wear, weeds threatening to usurp the flowers struggling to reach the sunlight.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he says, his eyes still closed, his voice raising so that it carries over the small gurgle of the fountain besides him. The footsteps stop a respectful few yards away from him. “This area is off limits.”

“I have permission,” said the stranger, and Jason opens his eyes, slowly getting up to turn. The boy – though there’s little baby fat to be found on his face – glances at him, pale cheekbones thrown into sharp contrast under the sunlight, an old camera tucked under his arm. “I’m Timothy Drake. They just hired me to take pictures around here.”

“Mister. Drake! There you are!” Another priest enters the alcove; his mouth immediately twists downwards when he sees Jason dusting the hem of his robes.

“What’s a kid like him doing around here? I thought this place was off-limits,” Jason starts, but the priest scowls at him.

“Mister Drake is –”

“I’m putting together a brochure for the church. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Father…”

“Todd. Father Todd.” Jason shakes hands with Tim; his calloused tanned hands contrast sharply with the paler, smoother skin of Tim’s.

“Anyway,” says Jason’s coworker rudely, inclining his head towards Jason as civilly as he could stomach, “Mister Drake asked to be shown the general grounds –”

“Actually, I’ve seen a lot of it already, thank you,” says Tim with a quiet smile. “I’m sure I’ve wasted enough of your time already, perhaps Father Todd can…?”

Father Todd glances down at him; he doesn’t exactly want to have a little shadow tagging along with him at his heels, but with the way the priest is glaring daggers at him, he figures it can’t hurt to test the limits of his coworker’s patience more than he already has.

“Sure.” He grins dryly at Tim. “I’ll show you all the little broom closets we keep the alcohol in.” They don’t even have a broom closet, but the priest turns cherry red and starts prattling about how blasphemous he is and what a stain Jason is on the church. Tim falls into step with Jason, a faintly amused expression gracing his mouth.

“You know, most people when they don’t want to be lectured about fire and brimstone by him don’t look to another priest for rescue.” Jason glances down at Tim pointedly.

“Maybe I had a little faith I’d be saved,” shrugs Tim candidly. “Onwards to the broom closet, Father Todd.”

Oh, Jason likes this one.

~*~*~*~

“Stand there – actually, a little more to the right, and look down just a little more, um, lower your hand a bit – perfect.” The shutter clicks.

“Is this really necessary?” Jason asks, eyebrows raised as he moves from his position.

“If you’re getting tired, we can stop.” Tim takes out the photograph the camera emits, waiting patiently for the black to develop.

“No, it’s fine.” Jason waves him off. “I did meant to ask, but why –”

“Do I use a polaroid? I don’t need a fancy camera to take good shots.” Tim shrugs, honest but blunt.

“Polaroids are pretty fancy,” Jason points out unhelpfully. Tim smiles a little at that.

“I suppose they are, aren’t they?” His fingers graze the aperture tenderly, readjusting it, and Jason wishes he treasured the cross above his heart even half as much.

~*~*~*~

“Y’know, you’re not really like the other priests,” observes Tim, frowning, and Jason only scoffs.

“What tipped you off?”

“Golly, I don’t know,” says Tim casually like the little shit he is, and though it ticks Jason off that they’re on somewhat familiar terms within a matter of weeks, he doesn’t call Tim out on it. “but the black eye _might_ have been just a slight giveaway. Were you in a street fight defending a lady’s virtue? Did you hit them with your Bible and instill within them the fear of God?”

“Why are you still here, anyway?” Jason frowns at him (he’s not willing to admit that Tim is scarily right, because that would mean Jason is painfully predictable.) Tim rolls his eyes.

“I was planning on making you pose for me, but with that black eye you might end up scaring away more potential penitents than I can rope in. I’m not _that_ good.”

“You should already have more than enough pictures of the church,” retaliates Jason, more heated than strictly necessary.

“I do,” agrees Tim easily. “But you’re one of the more fascinating subjects I’ve had the opportunity to photograph in a very long time.”

Jason quirks his eyebrow. “I don’t think the church would be pleased that they’re paying you to stalk me.”

Tim shrugs. “You gonna kiss and tell on me? Also, it’s my job to stalk things.”

Jason huffs. “Get back to photographing the gargoyles or something before I actually do.”

“Found one.” A flash lights up in Jason’s face and he flinches away on instinct, closing his eyes. Tim laughs, walking away, and Father Todd sighs and mutters _brat_ under his breath.

It’s getting dangerous, he thinks, and yet falling into his usual banter with Tim easier than breathing. He’s getting too deep.

~*~*~*~

“Y’know,” notes Roy drolly in that way that makes Jason want to punch his face if he weren’t his only friend beyond Kori, “it’s been a loooong time since I’ve seen you tolerate someone’s presence for that long.”

“Can it.” Jason flicks a piece of bread at him before continuing to bite into the delicious chili dog. They’re in civilian clothes, Roy heading to Star City for the weekend and Jason bitterly complaining about the other priests giving him stink eye.  “He said he’s already put the brochure and the ads together so he’s just sticking around, since, I don’t know, maybe he wants to convert.”

“But he’s still tagging around with you,” points out Roy unhelpfully. “And you know, I find it pretty unlikely that you spend every moment with him preaching gospel. Also you’re like the worst person at conversion. No offense. But you’re really good at public speaking up at the front, I’ll give you that.”

“Who’s he gonna hang around with otherwise, the old farts running the place?” snorts Jason.

“Wow, I’ve never heard anyone call their superiors that. Nice touch. But you know what I think?”

“I don’t care.”

“I think you’re in _denial_.”

“ _Roy_.”

~*~*~*~

It’s a shock when Jason rounds a corner and nearly slams into Tim in the late hours. Sure, the church is open, but there’s barely anyone around and the hallways echo and _Christ_ , the kid is quiet.

“Tim, what are you –” Without even missing a beat, Tim grips him by the cassock and hauls him into a tiny cloister that Jason can barely fit him by himself, let alone Tim. Tim squeezes himself against Jason’s chest, back pressing against him insistently. Automatically Jason’s arms come around to rest gently against the contours of his ribcage.

“ _Not a word_ ,” mouths Tim at him, spinning around and raising the camera to his face, fingers ready at the trigger.

Soft footfalls, and silhouettes elongating on the limestone. Jason recognizes the heavier treads and the soft swishes of priestly garb as one of the gentler and more passionate parishioners though he was more willing to turn a blind eye to Jason’s less priestly habits compared to some of the others. However, there are accompanying footsteps, lighter and quicker. The shadows foretell an altar boy, but the way that the dark silhouettes are gripping each other – and oh god, what were they _doing_ –

The two shapes stumble into sight, the altar boy encased in the folds of Jason’s coworker’s robe, and the two stumble. Tim’s shutter is moving like hummingbird wings beating rapidly for a dark truth to take flight. Jason only feels a stunned numbness crawling through him as the two pass undisturbed through the corridors, horror gnawing at him that such an atrocity had been passing under his nose for God knew how long –

“They’re gone.” Tim’s voice is quiet, calm. Jason stares at him, distantly registers only now that Tim has swapped his Polaroid for something small, but recognizably powerful and more high tech.

“They said you were a photographer.”

“I am,” says Tim smoothly. “I take a lot of jobs.” Which really isn’t an answer, but Tim’s the kind of person who never gives them.

“What are you going to do with those photos?”

“Are you worried about your job?” Tim’s eyebrows raise. “I wouldn’t blame you.”

The thought hadn’t even crossed Jason’s mind. “That’s not the _point_.” Rage flickers in his stomach, nausea and shock coursing through him now that he’s processing what he just bore witness to. The wooden cross against his chest feels leaden.

Tim nods absentmindedly. “Lighting’s bad,” he mutters, distracted and barely paying any more attention to Jason. “The film – it might be overexposed – not enough.”

“Not enough _what_?” Tim turns towards him, and it strikes Jason just how pale and slender the damn kid is, the dark bags under his eyes making his complexion appear gaunter than it actually was.

“You gonna snitch on me?” Tim is already sliding the camera into his satchel like he already knows Jason’s answer. Of course he does.

“No. But –” Jason stops himself, and Tim tilts his head up patiently, watching him with clear blue eyes.

“But what?”

“You’re expecting me to sit here and do nothing?” demands Jason. “To hell with that.”

Tim clicks his tongue. “Well, what _are_ you going to do?” He raises his eyebrow. “I’m the one with photographic evidence here, and it’s your word against his without it.”

“You’re not just a freelancer, are you.”

 “I’m an independent contractor,” he says calmly, walking away. “And between the two of us, I suggest you keep a lower profile during the next few weeks. Maybe find a new job. Stop hitting would-be burglars with Bibles that punch you in retaliation. You look better without black eyes.”

~*~*~*~

As an East Side Gothamite who grew up turning tricks and surviving on the latest gossip on the streets to avoid turf wars between rival gangs, Jason knows how to dig up information. A generic search of Tim’s name generates webpages on the Drake family and Tim’s photography blog. Nothing that doesn’t add up to what Tim’s already told him, except that the kid is stinking rich, which would certainly explain why he has nothing better to do but wander around the church in his spare time.

“Wooow. Stalking your new beau already? I see you found his Facebook and Instagram. Is he a Wizards and Warlocks nerd?” Roy passes him a coffee.

“Shut up, Roy. He’s suspicious.”

“Of course he is,” agrees Roy amiably. “You’re the most suspicious one of all, Mister Father Todd.” He pats Jason amiably on the head before heading out, leaving Jason to the privacy of his own thoughts.

God, Jason can’t even dispute him on that. But Timothy Drake is a mystery that’s been slowly worming his way into Jason’s life, and he doesn’t know how to feel about a young man with a hidden agenda. Yet Tim – whatever he knew of Jason – had never treated him any differently than he had during their first meeting, a rarity Jason quickly learned to appreciate.

~*~*~*~

The new brochure comes out. Despite the scores of pictures Jason has been forced to pose for, not a single one of them has made it into the pages. However, he does notice that the priest from _that_ night is on the front cover, baptizing a young child.

He finds Tim on the edges of the lake on the church property, resting on his belly as he adjusts the lens. Heedless of the mud now smearing across his crisp polo shirt, his focus is purely on the mallards serenely crossing the water’s surface. He says nothing for a moment, watching the intensity of Tim’s stare never waver. He remembers once, the priests hovering near the muddy banks, unwilling to enter the marshy section of grass lest their robes were sullied.

“I always wondered,” Tim begins, his eyes never straying from whatever rose-flecked vision Jason’s eyes can only dream of glimpsing through grey-tinted lenses, “why you became a priest.”

“You’re not the first one to wonder.” Jason collects his thoughts, questioning why his ever-changing answer rings false even to him. “I might not agree with everything in scripture, but the church does good.” Whatever that meant anymore, he doesn’t know.

“But out of faith? Or out of guilt?” hums Tim softly, the mother mallard with her ducklings paddling along serenely.

“If something good comes out of it, does it matter?” Jason’s not defending anything or anyone, not by any stretch of the imagination, but –

“So the ends justify the means,” murmurs Tim picking conclusions from Jason’s words with deadly precision. “You’re a sterner man than I thought, Father Todd. And yet.” Tim’s shutter clicks again. “You’re a person who does things in spades, Father. It isn’t a stretch to say that you’re someone motivated by passion. So. Why a religion you doubt?”

Why indeed. Why hadn’t Jason resigned the night the aging cracks had shown in his chosen faith, a thousand questions with nebulous, flaky answers.

“Because people need something to believe in.”

“Even if it’s a lie?”

Jason thinks back to bygone days, of empty stomachs and misdirected anger, of hopelessness and empty syringes.

“Yes.”

“I see.” While Jason is by far more inclined to argue that Tim _doesn’t_ , he remembers Tim’s mask of calm, the rose lenses off, recording a crime that Gotham was no stranger to, had borne witness to time and time again. Tim was his testament, had been his shadow for the last few weeks as Jason welcomed the unwanted and the homeless into the church, had provided them with clothes and food and kept the orphans off the street and free of drugs, away from the gang recruiters who had quickly and painfully learned that Father Todd was a man of the cloth you could never hope to bribe.

Tim _does_ see, he realizes wretchedly, and that unsettles him for inexplicable reasons, that he unintentionally bared himself so easily to someone who knew how to get under his skin.

“You took much better photos than the ones in the brochure,” he tries.

“Are you talking about yourself, Father Todd?” Tim snaps picture after picture, voice soft so as not to disturb the wildlife.

“You know what I mean.” Jason is talking about the black and white glossy prints of ancient architecture, the rows of pews heading up to the altar, a wedding rite performed, the organ framed by old stained glass in evening lighting. The brochure showcases none of the true beauty Jason knows Tim managed to capture.

“Not at all.” Tim rolls onto his back before stretching languidly to get up. “By the way, everything’s going to hell in a handbasket tomorrow,” he says in passing. “Have a good afternoon, Father.”

~*~*~*~*~

If Jason’s honest, he’s been avoiding the culpable priest at all costs, so incensed as he was that he feared he would accost him with many fists to the face. But once the Daily Planet comes out, the church is closed down, and an investigation opens.

It’s the worst scenario Jason can imagine. Suddenly his old records are found, blown distinctly out of proportion. His checkered past is up for scrutiny, and he can’t escape the fallout. Jason doesn’t really care about that, that’s not what he’s worried about –

“I figured you’d come,” he scowls blackly, resting against the old oaken doors.

“I vouched for you.”

“Seems fishy if they’d let you on the investigation team if you’ve got a connection with me. Wouldn’t want to interfere with all that integrity under that big blue outfit.”

“ _Jason_. I’m not here on business.” Officer Grayson (God, Jason hates him so damn much) twitches forward, as if he wants to hug his estranged brother, but fortunately he’s in his uniform so it’s not exactly professional.

“The badge says otherwise.”

“I just drove here from Bludhaven straight from my job, Jason, shut up. Why didn’t you just come home? We miss you.”

“Fuck that.”

“Alfie misses you.”

“Stop it.” Jason’s eyes water a little at the sound of the old butler’s name.

“Bruce wanted to come. I told him not to.”

“You what?” Jason looks up. “You did that?”

“It took a lot of convincing.” Dick’s face contorts into a grimace. “I know you don’t want to come home, but…visit sometime, all right? Or even just. Give us a call, or something. Just think about it. Please.”

~*~*~*~

Jason is infuriated, but that doesn’t stop the fact that his name is rapidly cleared, no doubt through the shadows of Wayne money working magic under corporate tables. Families flock to him even when he’s out of priestly garb, mothers saying how they still trust him, thanking him for his prayers and blessings, and never before has Jason felt so much like a hack. Others naturally distrust him, and he can hardly blame them. He shakes the disgusted whispers off like water rolling off duck feathers, but inside he feels revolted that he never had an inkling of what was occurring under his own nose.

“You never told me who you were.”

“I take a lot of odd jobs here and there,” says Tim serenely, watching the sunset turn a pastel pink and orange.

“And you report for the Daily Planet?”

“Connections, rather,” says Tim breezily, waving his hand airily. Through his viewfinder the clouds are gold threaded, the puddles a beaten, burnished silver.

The world through Tim’s eyes is beautiful, his photographs stark and merciless in his chosen endeavors, the truths brittle and hard to swallow.

“You never told me why you’re still tagging around.”

“Isn’t it obvious?” asks Tim softly, and Jason knows what coming, but his hands are leaden and he’s too slow to react (he doesn’t want to react) and then Tim grazes a gentle kiss against his cheek.

Time speeds up like a shutter flash and multiple frames; Jason shoves Tim hard, and Tim falls away, skids a few inches down the hill. His expression morphs into stricken. Jason doesn’t want to think about his own.

“Tim, I –” He’s not in his cassock, but the cross he’s vowed to constricts his air and his desires more so than even the conservative clerical collar.

He steps away, one foot, then the other, then he’s turning, not quite running, not quite walking, doesn’t want to confront the damning truth, just wants to be as far away as damningly possible from Timothy Drake.

~*~*~*~

“Why him?” Jason whimpers into the shitty beer he’s downing, and Kori simply pats his head as he stares disconsolately into the empty glass bottom.

“Really, I don’t know why he’s moping,” he distantly hears Roy muttering in the background, because Jason has exceeded the allotted Roy’s best friend patience mark for the month in a single night. “I mean, between being bisexual, arguably being a non-believer or agnostic at best, and kicking a policeman in the balls for lifting hubcaps when he was twelve, this is hardly the worst sin he’s committed yet. He’s so goddamn _dense_ , he only realized _now_ he had the hots for him?”

“Men are odd creatures,” Kori observes wisely, as she hauls Jason up (bless her insane strength) and tucks him into the sofa. “Good night, Jason.”

It’s not a good night even in the slightest. Jason can hear the muted sounds of Roy gently snoring, curled about Kori in their own bed, Kori’s caring whispers as she trails her fingers through Roy’s locks. Jason dreams of those sometimes, where he wakes up with a warm body next to him that’s not a one night stand of bad ideas bottled into a powder keg.

His dreams are restless, wretched things, of wrongful reciprocation and desire cramping his veins and conscience like a vise. The desperate, lonely child that grew up too soon but he never really matured from fears further alienation, too much too late; Jason forces that part of him back under lock and key.

He can’t.

~*~*~*~

Jason stares. Tim stares back. The ice cream aisle suddenly feels too cramped and colder than it actually is.

“I didn’t take you for a strawberry kind of guy,” says Tim at last, examining the contents of Jason’s cart.

“What are you doing here?” is the first completely eloquent phrase that comes out of Jason’s mouth, like Tim has no business shopping in a local grocery store.

“I ran out of junk food.” Tim sighs mournfully. Indeed, his basket is filled with microwave food and an array of chip bags.

“Christ, what the hell have you been eating?” asks Jason, mortified.

“I thought priests aren’t supposed to take the Lord’s name in vain.” Jason is too distraught by the monstrosities casually sitting in Tim’s basket to even consider what the younger man just said.

“You’re going to die eating that shit.”

“Hm.” Tim looks down at his basket. “Taco pockets are pretty good though.”

“Ok, that’s enough.” Jason wrestles the basket from Tim. Tim gives up easily, bemused and cocking his head to the side in a way that is _not_ adorable.

“That’s my basket. Get your own cupcakes,” he pouts. Jason huffs.

“Listen, that basket is walking diabetes, and I am _not_ going to let you walk outside this store with that.”

“I’m glad you’re so concerned for my health, Father,” drawls Tim, but he patiently trails after Jason who grabs more groceries before paying.

“Shut up,” mutters Jason. It’s only once they’ve exited the supermarket that Jason belatedly realizes what a terrible idea this is.

“Walk with me?” asks Tim politely, like he’s the one carrying the damn bag when he’s _not_ , but Jason silently falls into step with him. They cross the banks of the river which is fortunately on the way to Roy’s apartment which Jason is now crashing at now that the church is closed. To Jason’s surprise, Tim changes direction, easily hopping down the grassy slopes until he’s a little ways above the gurgling water. He settles down, cross-legged, pats the side next to him without looking backwards at Jason. Reluctantly, Jason sits next to him.

“The ice cream will melt.”

“So get it out and we’ll eat it.” Jason stares at him, but then there’s two plastic spoons being held out to him, like a peace offering.

“You planned this,” he says accusingly, but Tim snorts.

“How was I supposed to know you were going to be shopping at the same place I was?”

“So you just carry plastic spoons around with you for no apparent reason.”

“I have a utility belt full of them,” says Tim seriously. “But maybe you should just accept that fact can be stranger than fiction and simply be grateful I have them.” Jason huffs, but decides not to question Tim’s bizarre antics as he uncaps the tub of ice cream and grabs a spoon from Tim. The ice cream has melted just enough that the spoons don’t snap, and Jason sighs at the sweet flavor.

“So why did you run?” asks Tim abruptly, after an all-too short companionable silence that shatters under the fragile atmosphere.

“I’m a priest, Tim. And you’re – your’e –” Jason chokes a little on his words. “You’re _seventeen_ , for fuck’s sake.”

“So you found my blog description,” hums Tim. “I’m flattered. But you know, I’ll be turning eighteen soon.”

“That – that doesn’t make it right. Shit, Tim – Jesus Christ, you managed to close down the damn church because of the same thing you’re trying to _start_.” A flicker of ire sparks in Jason’s chest at Tim’s hypocrisy. “Wait, are you trying to set me _up_?”

“No. I promise you that I’m not doing anything of the sort.”

They’re still not looking at each other. The tub of ice cream is really all that’s technically connecting them, still. And wasn’t that just a little bit sad?

“But, I don’t get it,” says Tim quietly. “You may – you may not necessarily practice what you preach like other priests, but with this – what’s holding you back?”

No shit. Jason grunts noncommittally around his mouthful. “I’m no saint –”

“But you’re no devil, either.” Jason can feel Tim’s gaze burning a hole into him. “No one is, Jason. So tell me why you’re afraid of this.” His words are gentle, earnest. It shakes Jason’s core. That Tim hit the nail on the head, so precisely, so accurately, that he’s pushing through all of Jason’s barriers without even trying – he’s fearsome, for all of that unnerving intelligence layered behind a tiny frame and too-pale features.

“It’s wrong. And that’s all the reason I need.”

“I love you.”

“You’re goddamn seventeen, you don’t know what you –”

“I know you smoke when you’re stressed, and for all your bad habits you’d help out a person in need faster than any of the other priests in that church, and you’d give more for it too out of your own pocket than just a blessing. You don’t hide what you are, though you don’t flaunt it either. You’re a huge fan of chili dogs with extra pickles. When you pray you don’t pray for yourself, you pray for Gotham and its inhabitants, but you’re a man of action; you’d rather take matters into your own hand than wait and waste your breath.” Tim flops back against the grass, closes his eyes. “And when you look at me, your hands shake and you clasp your cross.”

Damn it all, he’s right. Jason’s fingers tremble around the scoop of ice cream as he shoves it furiously in his mouth.

“If you’re so damn confident, why are you chasing after me?” he growls defiantly around the strawberries melting over his tongue.

“Because I know you feel the same way,” says Tim quietly. “And I’m not willing to give up if it’s just a matter of age.”

“Age is just the cherry on top,” snorts Jason. His spoon snaps when he shoves it too hard into the ice cream.

“Probably. But you haven’t denied anything I’ve said yet.”

Jason says nothing. Tim’s hand rests atop his, and he reflexively twitches, but otherwise doesn’t budge.

“Tell me that you hate me. That you don’t want this.”

Jason stays quiet.

“You’re not rejecting this because you’re a priest, or even that you like guys, or whatever. You just don’t want to face your own feelings. The root of it’s not about morality or religion, not for either of us. It’s just that you’re _scared_. But so am I.”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.” It’s the first word out of Tim’s mouth that’s distinguishably juvenile, like it’s out of a corny chick flick, that makes Jason realize just how out of his element Tim actually is, that maybe not everything is stupidly calculated the way he makes it out to be.

He snorts and ruffles Tim’s head, tries to dispel the weird atmosphere. “I’m too old for you, kid.”

“Please, you can’t be more than twenty-five.”

Well, he’s not wrong there, either. Jason huffs and sits up, fishing his broken spoon from the melting ice cream. “It’s getting late.”

“Don’t change the subject.” Tim catches his chin and turns it so that Jason’s really, truly looking at him for the first time during this entire encounter, with a touch so gentle Jason can’t defend himself, can’t bat away Tim’s slender fingers.

“I hate you,” mutters Jason, gaze flickering away from earnest blue eyes, paler than his but no less fervent.

“You love me.”

“I do,” exhales Jason, exhausted from losing battle after battle, tired of repeating the same lie over and over.

“Thank god,” Tim breathes, and the glare of the sunset and Tim’s smile is blinding.

“But it doesn’t change anything.” Jason straightens his shoulders, tears himself away from Tim’s gentle touch. Tim’s head whips up to stare at him in confusion, his smile vanishing. “Nothing is going to happen between us, Tim.”

“But –”

“ _But nothing_.” Biting steel enters Jason’s tone; it softens just as easily. God, he’s so _weak_. “Please understand, Tim.” There were more reasons than there were probably stars in the sky not to let himself fall, and only one reason that Jason wanted nothing more than to lean in and take the plunge.

Tim stares right ahead, his expression implacable. “Feelings don’t die just because you want them to, Father Todd. And doubts don’t just erase themselves unless you confront them either.”

“I know.”

“So I’ll wait for you,” hums Tim, closing his eyes, and Jason cringes because of the fleeting expression of sadness that Tim’s eyes can’t hide.

“You won’t wait for long,” scoffs Jason as he looks away. “You’ll find someone else eventually.”

“Probably,” agrees Tim casually. “But I’ve learned not to let things go without a fight.”

“You’re a real piece of work, you know that?” snorts Jason as he cradles his frustrated head in his hands. “Do you even realize that maybe – just maybe – that there are steps between going from acquaintances to – to _lovers_?” His voice cracks a little.

Tim is silent, digesting that piece of information, and Jason can practically hear the well-oiled cogs of his brain churning, and he braces himself for whatever comes out of Tim’s mouth next.

“So – let’s have a trial period,” suggests Tim, and Jason blinks. “Just friends. That’s it. Or call it whatever you want. Nothing more, nothing less.”

It sounds like a terrible idea. It’s a story that's been told countless times of poorly concealed awkward tension barreling forward until it crashes and burns, and yet Jason is attracted to it like a moth to a flame.

“Ok,” he finds himself saying, telling himself it’s just to get Tim off his back, and then once they’re off this accursed riverbank, he will make himself scarce, and flee from Tim’s presence until the damning tightness in his chest abates permanently. “All right.”

“Great.” Tim caps the ice cream, and already the unsettling silence of nothing to talk about suffocates the uncertain agreement between them, as Jason desperately claws his brain for something to break the tension, the strange and volatile nature of an armistice.

“So do you really just carry spoons around all the fucking time?”

The laugh that bursts from Tim’s lungs is a little forced, a little too loud, but it eases something in Jason’s chest as they both fumble for the pieces to keep them afloat.

“No, but isn’t it more fun to keep you guessing as to why I have them?”


	2. Photography

It’s in the little way Tim looks at him, sometimes, with the underlying sweetness of a layer that Jason could have once turned a blind eye to when it was ambiguous but now is impossible to ignore. Yet they struggle on, the topics unobtrusive until –

“Wait, let me get this straight.” Jason blinks at Tim. “You want to use my photos for an exhibition?”

“Yep.” Tim hums distractedly. “I haven’t set up my booth yet, I’m behind schedule, and I need prints to sell. My landlady upped the rent.”

“I don’t think priests are going to sell well.” Jason blinks at him. “I mean I’d probably buy a garden gnome over a picture of me.”

“Are you really going to argue with the one with the artistic streak?” Tim clicks his tongue admonishingly. “Bring your cassock. Maybe you can model for me, if we’ve got time. If you’re willing, that is.”

“Uh –”

“Of course,” hums Tim idly. “You’ll get a cut of whatever I make at the exhibit.”

It’s not about the money, Jason tells himself. But funds are dwindling, and he knows he can’t live on Roy’s couch forever.

“I’ll think about it,” he says, and Tim just nods like he knows it’s already a done deal.

~*~*~*~

“Hey, come in.” Jason blinks at a guy who is decidedly not Tim, all muscle, maybe even a bit taller and bulkier than himself. “Tim said you’d be coming around. I’m Kon.”

“Jason,” he manages, cautiously stepping in and surveying the apartment. The place is an absolute mess, and he can hear frantic shouting from deeper within the chaos that is Flat 149.

“Oh yeah, me ‘n Bart are helping Tim out to get ready for the exhibit; gotta price things and all, and then we gotta reprint whatever Tim thinks can sell. Once Tim calms Bart down from his sugar high he’ll be out.” Kon grins amiably at him just as the side door bursts open and a short teenager sprints in.

“Hey! I’m Bart, you must be Jason, which is totally crash, Tim talks so much about you –”

“ _Bart_!” Tim skids in, his eyes round like dinner plates with horror and carrying a stack of albums. “Can you _please_ just go to the store and buy more photo paper?”

“Gotcha! I’ll be back in a flash!” The brunette tips a jaunty salute to Tim. “So long, nice to meetcha, gotta go!” he breezes past Jason and Kon, the door clicks, shut, and Jason stands there all but gaping.

“…Hi,” he manages, and Kon doesn’t even bother hiding a grin.

“You handled that well. Well, I’m going to make sure Bart’s all right. Catch you both later.” With a lazy wave, Kon exits the apartment, leaving Jason standing in the apartment alone with Tim. The bright sunlight shimmering through the window drapes over Tim’s profile, and for a moment, Jason wishes he could freeze time; Tim looking at him with the sunlight almost blinding, almost pure, almost hurts because he can’t think of a time when anybody looked at him like he was the world out of priestly garb. Then the moment of stillness breaks, Tim spurred into action.

“Do you want coffee – shit, we don’t have any, we’re not allowed to drink it when Bart’s in, um, we have water –”

“I’m fine, Tim,” Jason interrupts gently, placing a hand on Tim’s shoulder to reassure him. “You look exhausted.”

“It’s been a rough week,” admits Tim, smiling weakly up at him. “Here, I’ll show you the prints I’m thinking of bringing. I know I said to bring your cassock, but I really don’t have time to take anymore shots, sorry.”

“It’s all right.” Jason trails after him as Tim lays out the albums atop the mess that Jason can barely call a coffee table.

“Oh, that ones for cars, this is for wildlife, this is for food -”

“How do you keep track of everything?” manages Jason, staring at the adjacent bookcase that looks like World War III just crashed down atop it, thick albums spilling out onto the floor.

“Oh, I have most of them on my computers and hard drive, but I keep the originals I really like in those.”

“You must really like your originals,” manages Jason, and Tim grins at him impishly.

“Guilty. Anyway, here are the ones of you I was thinking of.” Tim opens his last album, gingerly sliding out multiple shots of Jason in the church, in gray and white tones and a few in color.

“What’s this one?” asks Jason, and he points to a breathtaking shot of his outline at the altar, his arms outspread and the refracting sunlight stained a thousand opal hues through the colored image of Jesus above him.

“That,” murmurs Tim softly, as if it’s only meant for Jason’s ears, “is actually one of my favorites.”

“Oh.” Jason glances away, because the reverence evident on Tim’s face as he smooths his fingertips over the clear plastic shakes his soul, heart thumping unsteadily and pulse thrumming with heat.

“I was actually thinking about using this one, though.” The picture Tim flips to depicts the sweeping church grounds, towards the back plot that contains an aged old tombstone, ivy creeping over the faded letters. Jason’s cassock is blowing dramatically in the wind, the rosary in his clasped hands starkly clear in the faded contrast.

“Did you not want to use the first one?” asks Jason, and he sees Tim visibly hesitate.

“I –” Tim glances away. “I guess I want…to keep that one to myself,” he mumbles.

Oh. _Oh_. Jason swallows audibly. “Tim,” he offers, but Tim quickly flips to the next page, laughing jerkily.

“Anyway, I thought these were also good, what do you think?”

They are good, Jason can’t dispute it, but then his eyes land on a certain frame. Numbness overtakes Jason, an uncertain, blinding hope that maybe he’s wrong, that maybe he’s imagining things. The photo says otherwise, though, and the thought is unsettling.

The small digital numbers printed into the glossy paper say that it’s dated from February, but surely that can’t be possible because Jason only met Tim in late April. Yet the angle dictates that it was taken from above, overlooking the church grounds and the small orchards, and unease fills Jason; he looks down once more at his own figure stooped in prayer near old Saint Francis.

“Hey,” he manages, voicing his fears like a gentle tease, “when’d you take this one?”

Tim glances over where he’s picking out a variety of photos tenderly pressed between careful cellophane in a different album. “Not too long ago, I think,” hums Tim distractedly. “To be honest, I’m terrible about categorizing things. Hey, what do you think of this one?”

~*~*~*~

Now that Jason’s crashing on Roy’s couch, while he knows he’s welcome there, he feels nauseated at the sickeningly sweet exchange of petnames that Roy and Kori trade. He takes long walks around Gotham, his cassocks tucked neatly away into a duffel bag shoved behind Roy’s sofa.

“Dude, you know, mi casa es su casa and all that,” frowns Roy.  “You know Kori and I don’t mind you hanging out here with us.”

He knows. _God_ , does Jason know. But though the news debacle is already slowly dying down, Jason – Jason doesn’t know how to move forward, where to go from here.

“You think we could be bounty hunters?” he asks absentmindedly, as he stares blankly at his paltry list of references and a resume in dire need of fluffing. He never finished high school; who the hell was going to hire _him_?

“Hell yea. Kori can be our mascot.” Roy bumps shoulders with him affectionately. “We can drive into the Arizonan wilderness, bust some rigged casinos and live the vigilante life.”

“Please, what exactly is a mascot?” chirps Kori, wandering into the living room with Roy’s stupid trucker hat and one of his baggy shirts that drapes down to her knees.

“You just sit around and look amazing, which you already do, chickpea,” offers Roy, beaming as he pecks her on the cheek.

“It’s a horse with three arms and heads; he’s lying,” grunts Jason.

“I think a mascot sounds _very_ cool,” chirps Kori, and Jason doesn’t even have the heart to groan as Roy flips him off and drags Kori into a very enthusiastic kiss. The doorbell rings, which means it’s probably the pizza guy, and Jason grumbles as he opens the door and –

“I have your invitation to the exhibit,” says Tim casually, and he’s got a thin envelope in his hand. “I figured you might be interested.”

“I – er – thanks,” stutters Jason, because while Tim looks exhausted with blue rimming the undersides of his eyes, he’s wearing these thin-frame glasses that make him look _gorgeous_ and Jason’s ill-fated wants are coming back with a surge.

“It’s my birthday that day, so if you’re down for celebrating with me you’re welcome to.”

“Right. Right.” Jason swallows audibly. “Uh, I’m not much of a gift shopper.”

“None of my socks match whenever Bart does laundry, so maybe a pair or two would be nice.”

Jason barely stifles a snort, but realizes that Tim’s not laughing. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Jay, is that the pizza boy?” yells Roy, and from the sounds Jason suspects that he’s still making out with Kory. Tim blinks, cocks his head as if to hear better, and then a full blush descends upon his cheeks when he finally realizes that Jason is living with two disgusting people who are his dear friends.

“I gotta get back and make sure they’re not doing anything dumb,” grumbles Jason, offering Tim an awkward smile. “Hey – I’ll be there. Thanks for the invite.”

~*~*~*~

Tim’s prints are selling well – the gallery is filled with a thousand different mediums, a hundred different artists, tens of collectors, and a one and only Tim Drake. Jason licks his lips nervously as a framed picture of him stooped in prayer goes for over fifty dollars, a smaller print for thirty. Tim smiles and nods vigorously at every person who compliments him, applauds his work. Some ask him what sort of film he uses, how he develops his pictures, and Tim explains everything with a passion that Jason feeds off of, the enthusiasm affecting the mood of his booth. When the crowd around Tim’s pictures begins to disperse, Jason manages to find his way to Tim’s side, offering a glass of champagne to him.

“I didn’t realize just how many people come to these things,” he says by way of greeting, and Tim grins at him, a genuine, happy smile.

“It surprised me, too,” he says, and his obvious joy is infectious.

“Happy birthday, Tim,” Jason says, and he offers Tim a gift bag. “Sorry. I didn’t have time to wrap.”

Tim’s face widens with wonder.

“You got me a telephoto lens for my phone,” he breathes avidly, brandishing the box with a flourish once it pulls away from the sea of colored tissue paper, “and a pair of socks.”

“I’m glad you like them too,” grins Jason.

“You’re the best, Jason. I mean it.”

“It is your eighteenth, after all.” Jason remembers spending his own completely drunk as hell and waking up with a questionable amount of clothes on and missing his wallet; he wants Tim’s to so much more memorable and special than that.

“Yeah,” murmurs Tim, and suddenly Jason realizes just how close they actually are; the booth is somewhat small, covered inch by inch by different prints; architecture, shadowed bridges and forests, a hummingbird frozen in midflight. The muted cocktail conversations fades out.

“Tim,” he mutters, shifting, cautiously, feeling the awkwardness present since that day by the riverbank descend once more.

“It’s my birthday,” repeats Tim quietly, and Jason can’t refute it; he knows that the quantity of alcohol he’s drank already isn’t nearly enough plausible deniability, he knows it’s a public area, that it’s all such a bad idea.

“Happy birthday,” he whispers, and he dips down to peck a gentle, chaste kiss against Tim’s mouth. When he pulls away, Tim is staring up at him with huge eyes and his mouth slightly parted, tongue darting out to wet his lips, and Jason swallows thickly.

“ _Jason_.” A shocked baritone voice greets them, and Jason jolts to attention like he’s been scorched. He _knows_ that voice.

“Jason, what are you doing here?” Jason whirls around to find none other but Dick, dressed in semi-formal attire and dumbly holding a beautifully wrapped present. Dick is gaping at him, and his heart nearly stops, because if Dick is here –

“I –” Tim’s eyes are huge, and he takes a step back and bumps into Jason, who automatically grasps his arms to steady him unless he knocks over the booth.

“Bruce,” Jason manages, and he locks eyes with his adoptive father, who probably looks as equally stunned as him.

“It’s not what it looks like,” blurts Tim, and his mortification isn’t for show.

“I – what the hell is going on?” hisses Jason.

Dick and Bruce glance at each other; Jason hates that things has changed, that enough time has passed that he can’t nearly read them as fluidly as he once used to.

“Mr. Drake,” says Bruce carefully, and Jason steels himself, “I think we need to talk.”

Tim flinches; then straightens up like a man going to his doom.

“All right. Lead the way.” He exits the booth, and Jason can only watch dumbstruck as the two turn the corner and disappear.

“Dick, what is – how do you – do you guys know Tim?”

“Yeah,” mutters Dick quietly, but his face is pale. “But if what I just saw wasn’t me hallucinating, did you…just _kiss_ him?”

“What of it?” grimaces Jason defensively. He’s definitely sober, the pleasant buzz of the champagne dwindling away, and his head is buzzing with questions.

“Bloody hell,” mutters Dick. “God, I didn’t think – Jason – hell.”

“Yes, I am bi, Dick, sorry you had to find out this way,” spits Jason, his fear changing to anger. Dick holds up his arms placatingly, but his expression is strained.

“That’s – that’s not what I’m shocked about,” says Dick, but Jason snarls defensively.

“ _Then_ what?”

Dick swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing. “I…I think that Bruce should probably be the one to explain –”

“No. I’ll explain.” Tim rounds the corner. A few paces behind, Bruce trails after like a grim shadow.  “Can you – can you give us a moment?”

Dick and Bruce glance between each other again – but they back away, leaving Jason and Tim to face each other as the fragile peace splinters further.

“Tim – how do you know them?” manages Jason cautiously, warily. Tim’s face is impassive once more, but his eyes are pleading and it _hurts_.

“You were good at running,” Tim says quietly. “You always were. So when you disappeared – didn’t you think that maybe – maybe there were people worried about you? People who – who would have torn the world apart to get you back?”

The pieces are sliding together, and Jason wants to scream and dash them to unreadable fragments. God – he doesn’t – he doesn’t want to believe it.

“You weren’t just investigating the church,” he croaks, and Tim nods.

“Yeah.” Tim reaches into his pocket, draws out his wallet and it folds open, revealing an ID. “I’m a private investigator; your brother recommended me to Bruce.”

“Those _bastards_ ,” growls Jason, and his fists clench into the denim of his jeans. “You – you –”

“It wasn’t initially to investigate you, for what it’s worth. Someone was skimming profits from Wayne Enterprises and I was to scope out the mole. Once I was successful – well, you can guess the rest.” Tim gnaws his bottom lip.

“So – imagine my surprise when the church I was already investigating – that was where you were hiding, in plain sight.” Tim sighs and cards a frustrated hand through his curls. “For whatever good it does – I – I really am sorry.”

“Bullshit,” says Jason, repeats it again more vehemently. “ _Bullshit_. You’ve – you’ve been lying to me all this time and – and –” Tim’s face is stricken, fearful, and they’re starting to draw eyes. Jason can’t breathe properly; he can feel a prickly burning behind his eyelids. “Christ, you’re – you’re just like the rest of them,” spits Jason. “Go to hell.”

“Jason –” pleads Tim desperately, but Jason can’t look at him; he knows he’ll cave once more, and there’s been enough damage done.

He all but runs to the entrance, too afraid to look back, to see if Tim is following him, or still rooted to the floor.

“Jason.” He seizes up; Bruce is standing there, the same as ever, his eyes a little more tired, maybe a little more gaunt.

“Fuck you,” he snarls, the edge of his Gotham accent emerging in his ire. “You actually hired someone to stalk me, you paranoid bastard? Fuck. You.” He brushes past Bruce; his adoptive father stands there like a stone as Jason flees once more into the Gotham night.

One look at his face when he storms in sends Roy and Kory disappearing into their bedroom, knowing to give him space and to weather the storm out. He doesn't bother to change as he practically throws himself onto the sofa, buries his head in the pillows and clenches his eyes against the dark and Tim's desperate, helpless eyes.

 _God_ , he thinks, but no prayers come to mind.  _Give me strength._ He curls up, like he's once again a ten year old boy sleeping in a too big bed in a too big mansion, waiting for the elusive reprieve of sleep to overtake him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *coughs* i can't seem to give jason a break, can I?
> 
> Reviews and kudos always help me improve :)
> 
> Anyway, I procrastinate on [tumblr](http://rivetingfabrications.tumblr.com/) a lot, so you can follow me there if you want lol. (it's nsfw, you've been warned)


	3. Five Years Time

“So,” hums Roy idly, stirring his water aimlessly, “are you going to do it?”

“I don’t know.” Jason heaves a sigh, scrubbing at his unshaven scruff. “I mean, I guess I technically could, given there’s a place to do so. Are you going to go?” The marriage invitation sits like a sinking stone atop their coffee table, ominous and looming.

Roy sighs. “We were – good, Jase. We used to be great. I mean, _I’m_ happy for him, I don’t know about you. But hell, I was dating his ex, and well, I’m not totally sure the offer was extended to Kori. Seems a little – you get it.”

Jason groans, rubbing his eyes blearily in the hopes it would make the invitation in all its floral print disappear. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

“Five years is a long time to hold grudges.”

“It’s not exactly like _you’ve_ managed to patch things up with Ollie.”

Roy’s mouth thins a little. “A little below the belt, don’t you think, Jaybird?” he mutters sourly. “But you know what I mean. It’s not like Dick really did anything to you.”

“Nah,” grumbles Jason. “Just doing his usual Golden Boy thing.”

“Maybe but – things have gotten better between you and your family,” points out Roy. “They – they want you back. And Dick is the kind of person who’d want to share his happiness with everyone. That’s just how he _is_. And you haven’t seen Barbara in years.”

“It’s not like we were close.”

“Still. She’s never done wrong to you, either.” Roy hums, looking through the window where the trees lining the sidewalk flutter gently in the breeze. “It might be a good opportunity, Jay. You don’t have to marry them; someone else can perform the ceremony. But I think you should go.”

“I’ll think about it,” says Jason reluctantly, closing his eyes and draining the last of his beer.

~*~*~*~

It couldn’t have been more than a few seconds a most, but the moment was like a snapshot, fleeting but memorialized, gone in a passing blink. It left Jason reeling like a sucker punch to the gut, almost gasping and clawing for air as the sunlight filtered through the stained glass visage of Christ on the cross onto Timothy Drake.

He hasn’t turned around, body in profile to Jason’s, fixated as he is on the crown of thorns. There’s still time to run, time to flee, Jason’s shoes to beat against the tiles and onto hot asphalt – and yet Jason is rooted to the spot, immovable as time slowed to a crawl.

“Jason are you all right?” Dick’s voice floats to him as if underwater, and then Tim’s head snaps up, eyes wide and stricken.

God, it hurts, as their eyes meet. The universe shrinks to encompass just the two of them, Tim’s hair gently swaying from the whiplash motion of his head jerking to face Jason. It’s gotten longer, his face thinning from the remnants of baby fat Jason didn’t even know he used to have, limbs longer and filling out the rest of him. Sunlight streams through the window, and the crown of Tim’s head gleams in its early afternoon glow.

And yet it’s like Jason is fucking twenty-three all over again, reeling from the proverbial blow Tim dealt him in his duplicity. Like nothing has changed.

“Hi,” Tim croaks, recovering first. His camera is dangling from the strap about his neck, a different model from what Jason recalls. He smiles at Jason, practiced and civil in ambiguous interest.

“What are you doing here?” asks Jason, and he hates how scratchy his throat feels, the prickling feeling that’s making it hard to speak around the lump in his vocal chords.

“Dick asked me to be the photographer,” says Tim softly, eyes flickering away at the approaching figure behind Jason, who claps a hand on Jason’s shoulder from behind.

“Good to see you made it,” says Dick, squeezing Jason fondly, and Jason swallows thickly, turning around to face him.

“No problem,” says Jason, and he’s glad when his voice doesn’t crack. “Wouldn’t want to miss you losing your bachelor card.”

Dick snorts at him fondly though his eyes are serious. “I’m really glad you agreed to officiate our wedding and come to rehearsal, but are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” grunts Jason, folding his arms. “Where’s the bride?”

“Right here,” says a familiar voice, and something in Jason inexplicably relaxes as he turns around and meets the eyes of Barbara Gordon.

“Heya, Barb,” he says, smiling at her crookedly.

“Aren’t you going to give me a hug?” she demands, and Jason laughs as he bends down so she can reach him from her wheelchair.

“Demanding. Is this how you treat your bridesmaids?” he asks, and Barbara groans before elbowing him.

“Don’t start. I’m this much away from becoming a bridezilla,” she says, gesturing with her thumb and index finger a centimeter apart.

“Got it,” Jason offers a teasing, jaunty salute back from his childhood at the manor, when she’d chase him down to do his homework and for afternoon snacks, and she laughs at him freely.

“Master Jason,” says another voice, and Jason seizes up a little, because this is so overwhelming, he can’t – “it is very good to see you again.”

“Hey Alfie,” mumbles Jason, and this time his voice _definitely_ cracks. “Good to see you.”

“Indeed,” murmurs Alfred, eyes perhaps a little misty. “We’re all delighted that you agreed to officiate.”

“N-no worries, hey, Alfie, look, I gotta, uh, grab some things, you don’t mind…?” Jason waves a hand with just a hint of desperation, and Alfred, bless him, immediately understands.

“Not at all, sir. Take your time; everyone is still getting settled.”

Jason beats a hasty retreat to the men’s restroom. He’s breathing hard; he splashes water on his face, fingers gripping the sink as he struggles to regain a grip on his control. The last one he needs to greet no doubt is here, but…god, he – he can’t, not now.

A muted but firm rap on the bathroom door, before it swings inwards.

“Are you all right?” asks Tim shyly, peeking in through the door, and Jason nods, heedless of the tiny rivulets of water trickling down his face and onto his collar.

“I’m fine,” he says quietly, and Tim nods as the awkward silence descends upon them.

“Why’d Dick pick you?” wonders Jason quietly, eyes sliding away from Tim’s. It takes a while for him to respond.

“After – well, everything, I quit acting as a P.I.,” mumbles Tim, eyes downcast. “Your family had helped me out a lot, and if I’m being honest, well – the last job had been sort of a favor to them. Dick’s always been good to me, even after well…that. Things were strained, obviously, but it’s. It’s better now.”

“Yeah.”

Tim looks up, finally meeting his gaze, and Jason is yet again struck speechless by the earnesty in his eyes.

“For what it’s worth, it’s good to see you again, Jason.” Then he’s walking out the door, back turned away, and Jason wants to run after him, to call him back, but once again, it’s too little too late.

~*~*~*~

“A little more to the left – yeah, angle your head more – perfect.” The shutter clicks, the flash erupts, and Dick gracefully picks Barbara up and swings her about to her protesting bouts of laughter.

It’s good to see them happy, Jason reflects, stepping off the podium. People are milling about, stretching their legs, but Jason’s heart drops as he spots the figure across the room watching him.

Bruce still cuts a heavy presence even when he’s not the center of attention, and all the moisture leaves Jason’s mouth as they lock gazes. Bruce’s face is unreadable, and once again it drives Jason nuts, has him screaming in the confines of his own head. Yet slowly, heart-stoppingly, Bruce nods slowly in Jason’s direction before rising to his feet and quietly exiting the church.

He doesn’t really know how to feel about that.

That night Jason throws himself onto his shitty mattress, looks up at the grimy skylight filtering a lunar glow into his room and wonders where the time went.

~*~*~*~

“Wally’s his best man.”

“Yeah,” murmurs Roy, looking down at his glass like he can see rock bottom. “No surprise there.”

“You should go.”

Roy snorts wryly. “Why are you suddenly the one hounding me to attend?”

“Dickie bought you a tux.”

“Return it.”

“For fuck’s sake, Roy.” Jason cards a hand through his hair. “If you don’t go Dick’s going to be mad at me.”

“Since when has that ever stopped you?”

Jason grunts, but he can’t refute Roy’s point. “I might need moral support,” he admits reluctantly.

Roy stares at him. “I don’t think I heard that correctly,” he says slowly.

“Don’t be an ass, Harper.”

“Moral support for _what_ , exactly?” Roy crosses his arms stubbornly.

Jason scowls. “Look, you remember Tim? The photographer.”

“What about him? Don’t tell me he’s there.”

“He’s there.” Jason folds his arms petulantly. Roy mutters something unsavory and lifts his gaze skywards in exasperation.

“Fine, I’ll come.”

Jason has never felt so blessed as having a friend like Harper.

~*~*~*~

“Deep breaths, man,” mutters Roy, jostling Jason as he reaches for a cupcake. “Target at seven o’clock. Act normal.”

“Ok. Ok,” breathes Jason. The reception is in full swing, with Jason having changed from his clerical robes to a tuxedo. “Where’s Dick?”

“Bridegroom’s still over with Kaldur and Donna.”

Jason grunts as he tops up his plate up and starts searching for wherever his seat placement is. His heart drops a thousand stones at the name on his left.

_Timothy Drake._

Roy shoots him a glance. “I could kill Dick for you later,” he mumbles under his breath. He stuck me next to _Jade_.”

“Later,” mutters Jason, steeling himself.

“You’ll be all right?”

Jason waves him off. “I’m fine. Go find your seat.”

With a final, lingering look, Roy wanders off, carrying his plate. In a few minutes, Tim drops into the seat next to Jason with barely a glance.

“Hi,” mumbles Jason automatically, then kicks himself.

“Hi,” manages Tim lamely, immediately shoveling potatoes into his mouth. A little desperately, Jason grabs his champagne flute and drains it. They continue like this for some time, picking at their food before Jason finds himself.

“So was this coincidence, or…?”

“…I asked Dick to seat us together,” confesses Tim, staring down at his plate. Jason wants to slam his head into the table.

“And he just agreed to it?” manages Jason, recovering from his temporary stunned silence. Tim winces.

“Well, it did take a lot of convincing. I wanted to apologize for everything,” says Tim, his voice small.

“Look –” Jason flounders. There’s still at least a solid three more hours until he can escape, and there’s no way in hell he’s about to cause a scene here. “That’s all – that’s all water under the bridge, okay? That was years ago.”

“Liar,” says Tim softly, not quite looking at him, but Jason can hear the determined vehemence in his voice all the same. “You’re still running. Nothing has changed.”

“Everything has,” refutes Jason with returning desperation.

“But not _us_.” A fleeting, pained expression shadows Tim’s face. “I know I ruined everything, that I fucked up, but I – we could have been great, Jason, and I know that you know it as well as I do.” Tim’s voice nearly breaks a little, and Jason’s heart cracks. “How can I make it up to you?”

Jason sighs, appetite already gone. “It’s – it’s not about that, Tim.”

“I know you don’t trust me anymore. That’s fine, I get it.” Tim’s face scrunches up, flushed and anxious. “But whatever it means to you – I wasn’t lying about my feelings.” He’s talking faster now; Jason wishes the other conversations going around him will reach a fervor pitch, that Wally would get up and make a toast, anything that would stall what Tim is about to say, but Tim’s speeding up, fumbling over his words.

“I thought I was professional enough not to let it affect my work – I was wrong. They – Bruce and Dick – they told me so much about you; if you had heard them speak about you when you weren’t there – they love you so much, Jason, they’re _proud_ of you, and I always wanted to meet you back then because you were such a strong influence on their lives, and – and –” Jason’s defense crumbles when he sees Tim’s eyes glittering wetly, swallowing away the tears.

“Hey,” he says softly, gripping Tim’s shoulder firmly. Getting up, Jason helps Tim carefully away from the table. “Let’s…let’s get some fresh air, okay?” He carefully guides Tim through the crowd as they part for him, Tim’s hair concealing his distress and downcast expression. Roy shoots him a concerned expression that Jason ignores; he’ll have to wait.

He guides Tim to a more secluded section of the grounds, away from the reception. Tim refuses to look at him; Jason awkwardly waits as Tim composes himself.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” asks Tim quietly, all but curling in on himself, and Jason gnaws at his lip uncomfortably.

“It was either that or have everyone see you cry,” Jason mutters gruffly, touching Tim’s shoulder in what’s supposed to be a consoling pat or vague comforting gesture. Tim’s laugh is choked, desperate, and Jason fumbles for words to try and slot Tim’s jagged pieces back together.

“I’m sorry,” he says uselessly. Tim snorts indignantly at him, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.

“For _what_? You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“For hurting you,” says Jason quietly. “That night at the gallery – it could have been avoided if I hadn’t went, if I hadn’t –” _Hadn’t kissed you,_ he thinks, reining back the words desperately to leave his tongue.

Tim chokes down a bitter laugh. “Yeah, but I practically _badgered_ you into going. And now you hate me.”

“I don’t hate you,” says Jason’s mouth automatically, and Tim whips around to glare at him so fiercely Jason thinks he might have given himself whiplash. “Well, I might have after that, for a time,” he admits, sighing. “But now – I don’t.”

“I don’t believe you,” mutters Tim. “You have every reason to.”

Jason grunts in affirmative. “Look – B’s a paranoid bastard. Even if he hadn’t sent you to scope me out – he would have sent somebody else. That’s just the kind of asshole he is.”

“It’s his way of saying he cares,” manages Tim, smiling weakly, and Jason just groans and rakes his hand through his hair.

“You’re giving an awful lot of credit to him.”

“Probably,” admits Tim gracefully, his eyes still slightly red-rimmed. “You know him better than I do, after all.”

Jason heaves a sigh, looking back at the hall where the reception is still in full swing.

“So where does this leave us?” he asks quietly.

“I – I don’t know,” says Tim uselessly. “I thought eventually – eventually we’d both move on, and that would be the end of _that_ chapter of our lives – but it’s not. Not for me, anyway.”

Just seeing Tim again – it had stunned him, every locked up thought and faded memory flooding back in full force, almost forcing Jason to his knees and making him tremble. He had thought he’d moved on as well – but that had just been yet another lie.

“No,” he says tiredly. “I never forgot you, either.”

Tim’s smile curls sadly. “I want to earn your trust back. But I don’t know how.”

“Neither do I,” admits Jason, pain creeping back into his voice.

Silence for a moment, as the gentle wind blows through the open doors, a refreshing breeze that gusts at their attires, tugs Tim’s hair back so that his bright blue eyes has Jason’s breath stuttering, like he’s back at old Saint Francis briary visage knelt in prayer the day they met.

“We could start over?” asks Tim tentatively, like he’s afraid of overstepping his boundaries, and Jason’s stomach wraps itself in pretzels.

And yet. He gazes at Tim, his form already filled out, his limbs no longer thin and wiry as they once were at seventeen. There’s a certain set to his gaze that’s more hesitant compared to five years past, but with an undeniable maturity that Jason’s memory doesn’t remember.

“Ok,” he says softly, and something in his chest feels lighter than it has ever been, not borne from guilt or acquiescence or denial. “We can do that, Tim.”

The slow expression of realization and relief that spreads over Tim’s face softens his features, eyes shining brighter with happiness than sadness, has Jason committing it to memory.

“You mean that, though?” asks Tim cautiously. “You’re not just saying that to –”

“I mean it,” says Jason. He really does, from the elated feeling of butterflies in his stomach, of anticipation and nerves, a stubborn, persistent feeling that he accepts instead of denying it.

“I – ok. Ok.” Tim sucks in a huge breath and releases it. “Okay.”

Jason can’t help the small smile that tugs at the seam of his lips. “Yeah.” He touches Tim’s shoulder, a little thrill jolting through that tiny point of contact, like he’s a teenager again. “Let’s get back to the reception before we miss the toast.”

“I. Ok,” repeats Tim dumbly, and Jason huffs a small laugh he didn’t realize he was holding.

“We can take our time,” he murmurs quietly. “We’ve still got at least two hours ahead of us.”

“I’ve been waiting five years,” replies Tim softly, and if there’s still a residual hint of wetness in those pale blue eyes Jason doesn’t mention it. “Two hours is nothing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm screaming I didn't actually think I'd ever finish this. 
> 
> Reviews and comments are so, so appreciated and wanted. This is my first legit finished multi chaptered fic like wth. I have commitment issues with my fics, not gonna lie.
> 
> Special thanks to: Theprofessionalrookie, cinnamonskull, and akanekari for all the encouragement and motivation they gave me :') Without them this would still be unfinished.
> 
> Hit me up on [tumblr](http://rivetingfabrications.tumblr.com/)! It gets randomly nsfw you've been warned.

**Author's Note:**

> So originally I meant to have a twist on the whole confession prompt as not a love confession but a confession in a confessional, but basically already did that for my other story Lust Incarnate :-/ I t father todd is more true to his original characterization than i have in here, so i wanted to do something that i hadn't done already ^^
> 
> Also this is just part one of three, so stay tuned ^_^ In theory the next two chapters should be for the prompts photography and redemption if i stick to my plan :P
> 
> I derp around on  [tumblr](http://rivetingfabrications.tumblr.com/) a lot when i'm not writing, so i guess if you're into nsfw and random derpy things you can find me there XD
> 
> Also, reviews make my day and help me improve my writing <3 Kudos are great too =w=


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